


Insouciant, Maybe

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014!Destiel, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, as fluffy as it gets in endverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:23:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long overdue conversation, and surprisingly little talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insouciant, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> My friend says there's no such thing as endverse fluff. I say nay.

After that fiasco of a briefing in the war room, Dean stumbles outside. He stares out towards his object, obscured by the night, and sighs. “Better say something,” he decides as he picks his way in the dark to the armory. Which is just a fancy way of saying “the cabin where we keep the guns.” He knows Cas will be alone. A shitstorm like that, no one will dare come near either one of them.

He climbs the stairs quietly and crosses the porch, but he lingers in the doorway. _This is stupid,_ he thinks, watching the erstwhile angel work through the checklist on his clipboard. _Look at him, look at how far he’s fallen._ A rumpled shirt two sizes too big, threadbare jeans with holes where a few belt loops went missing and frayed hems from dragging under his permanently blackened bare feet. Always barefoot when he can swing it. _Total hippie,_ but Dean’s smiling for the first time all day. He should walk in, give him the spiel, claim what he’s wanted for so long.

“What do you want, Dean?”

He freezes. Hesitantly, he replies, “How do you know it’s me?”

“Who else is gonna come anywhere near me after the exhibition back there?” He hasn’t looked away from his task. 

Dean smiles. He doesn’t respond. No response is necessary. He watches the long fingers tracking down the page, then reaching into a bin on a shelf, counting out shells. Basically everything will be packed into the trucks before midnight, but Chuck wants a list of what’s left for his inventory, and-

“Dean?” The soft growl pulls Dean back to the present. Cas still has his back to the door, yet he’s turned his scruffy cheek towards Dean. No eye contact, but the illusion of it. “What do you want?”

“You,” he breathes. Barely even a word. All this time, and Cas still turns him to absolute chickenshit.

Cas wheels. He looks angry all of a sudden, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. His smiting face. “What did you say?” 

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head, slumps against the doorjamb. “Fuck, Cas, I don’t even know.” He looks again and realizes it’s not a smiting face. _Goddammit._ He remembers the last time this look was levelled at him, when Dean had threatened to go to Michael. _“I got laid,” haha, what a shit I was. Good fucking times._

Cas’ face softens, the loose pudgy stubbly thing he’s worn since he buddied up to his pals Xanny and Vic. This face might terrify Dean with its twisted veneer of humanity, but at least this face smiles. It smiles now, not the shy awkward smiles of the angel, nor the huge toothy grin that lights up the room, the one that Dean fought so hard to resist in those first days after they locked the Pearly Gates. No, this smile, this horrible delicious grin, now mere inches from Dean’s reach, _Jesus he still stands so fucking close,_ this is the look of a predator, a wolf or one of those awful owls with human faces and soulless black demon eyes. Goddammit, but Dean has seen him look at the women of the camp with this same salacious gaze, crinkly eyes and cheeks, lopsided smile, lids half-closed, but that’s more pharmaceutical than hormonal. He’s so close. 

While Dean’s in lala-land, Cas has closed the distance. Now as Dean puzzles out the shape of the face before him, Cas lifts Dean’s arms to his shoulders and slips his own arms into Dean’s open jacket and wraps arms like tendrils around the too-thin waist there. Cas laughs softly, watching Dean watching him. “You used to be much better at the ‘last night on earth’ speech.”

Dean smiles easily. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks tilting his head towards Dean conspiratorially.

“What’s that?” he whispers. Breathily. He’d aimed for gravelly. He’d missed by a lot. Cas has that effect on him.

“It’s working anyway,” and he pins Dean to the wall with his hip. “You’re going to kiss me now.”

“Fuck, you move fast, Cas.”

“Yes, Dean, six years is far too fast. I should apologize.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean rumbles, letting his lips drop to Cas’. 

Truth be told, it’s not much different from any other first kiss. But. It’s Cas. His thumbs are under his shirt, rubbing at the skin of his hipbones. Dean’s hands are buried in his filthy, slippery-soft hair that always smells a little like patchouli and rain. It’s the end of the world. Literal fucking apocalypse. And Cas has that sweet orange breath that comes of drinking too much. Dean can taste licorice on his tongue. “The absinthe,” Dean murmurs against Cas’ lips. He’d brought a whole case back from that last raid on New Orleans before the city finally swamped. Cas was laid up, and quickly getting chummy with painkillers, but Dean never did forget the look on his face when he’d stashed the case in the wardrobe and pressed a finger to his lips, _shhh, don’t tell anyone._ “For me?” Cas had asked, clearly pleased, if a little dazed from the meds. Dean had smiled like a dork that Cas would like his gift.

“Why are you smiling? I can’t kiss you if you’re smiling,” a fake pout crumpling his stupid perfect lips. Making them even more perfect. _Stupid Cas and his stupid lips._

“You and the absinthe,” Dean chuckles. He’s smiling like a dork all over again. “Can’t believe you still have some.”

“Opened the last bottle today just before you got back with the Colt. Do you still hate the taste?”

“Do I still-” He leaned back. “You drank absinthe with past-me?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“No, I do, I just- I never thought of you as someone-else’s Cas.”

“I wasn’t,” he reminds him. “But I could be yours.” He smirks, a little shy as his hands sneak over Dean’s hips and into his back pockets, cupping the differential calculus of Dean’s ass. “What do you want, Dean?”

“You, Cas.” He takes his face between his hands. “I want you. I want to spend my last night on earth with you. I’m so sorry, I’m an asshole, Cas, I-”

Cas shuts him up, then takes his hand and leads him across camp to the cabin with the double-bed. Dean doesn’t like to think about the backroom deals he’d made to finagle it for Cas. “He’s hurt,” he’d argued. Whatever ulterior motives he’d once had, those hopes had vanished long ago, killed off by Sam and Croats and the drugs that never failed to find their way back into Cas’ shaky grasp. And the dwindling supply of Jack in Dean’s closet didn’t help, either. 

“You’ll be the first,” Cas is saying.

Dean blinks. “Are you a fucking liar.”

Cas shakes his head. “I never took anyone on this bed. I was saving it. For you.”

He’s stunned. “Why would you do that?”

The only response he gets is a deep shrug, pulling from all the way down his back. And then Cas’ lips are on Dean’s, his fingers are tugging Dean’s coat from his shoulders, his belt from his jeans. Dean reaches for the hem of the henley, ready to peel it off, too, but Cas stops him. “Leave it on,” he purrs. “I like it,” rubbing his palms over the cotton across Dean’s chest. 

Dean inhales sharply. “Cas.” He shoves a hand against his zipper, flinches. 

“You like that?”

“Fuck me,” he mumbles without meaning.

“That can be arranged.”

~~~

Out in the yard, where Chuck is supervising the loading of the trucks, a shout echoes from the general vicinity of Cas’ cabin.

“Was that- Was that Dean?” one of the grunts asks.

“Sure hope not.”

“You think he’s okay?”

“I think he’s more than okay,” Chuck grouses. “I think I owe Risa a roll of toilet paper.”

A loud lazy keening follows. 

“Dammit. Why do I even make bets?

~~~

“Loath as I am to move-”

“Then don’t,” Dean mumbles into Cas’ chest.

Cas smiles down at the irremediable but not irredeemable man in his arms. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“Don’t care. They gonna leave without us? Ain’t gonna happen. Shut your piehole and sleep with me.”

“Okay, Dean.” He presses a kiss to Dean’s sweaty hair. He waits a minute before trying again. “Dean?”

“What?” He sounds cranky.

“One of us will have to go in the front door.”

“Yeah, I know. Me. You take the Colt and go around the back.”

“No, Dean, I think I should lead the decoy.”

“What?” Dean sits up, still straddling Cas. Which, admittedly, takes something away from his intended attitude of righteous indignation. “Why?”

“Because, no offense, but I’m the more likely to survive a frontal assault.”

“You saying I don’t know how to-”

“I’m saying you’d rather be the grenade than the pin.”

Cas can see the gears working in Dean’s head. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He tries another tack. “If you’re the ‘Michael Sword,’ as they say, don’t you think you should be the one to- to do it?”

Dean sighs and flops back down against Cas, buries his nose in his neck. “Yeah. I thought of that. But if you could-”

“I can’t.”

He sighs again. He doesn’t speak for some moments and Cas believes him to be asleep. Until: “Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Do you really love me?”

“Desperately. Unconditionally.”

“Thank you. I don’t deserve it-”

“You do.”

“Thank you, shut up. I don’t deserve it, but-”

Cas does not interrupt. Just pokes him gently to continue.

“But we’re probably gonna die tomorrow, one or both of us, and I- I want you to know-” He hesitates.

“Know what, Dean?” Cas prompts, softly.

“I want you to know that, uh, that I’m sorry you fell, like from Heaven, for me. But mostly, uh, I want you to know that, I- I love you, too. Probably always have. And I’m a big fat coward because I never told you.” He props himself up enough to kiss Cas on the lips and look at his big blue beautiful eyes again. “I love you in hell, on earth, in purgatory, and in heaven.” He gives Cas a lopsided grin. “And that’s probably all the poetry you’ll ever get out of me, so I hope you enjoyed it.”

Cas laughs, a round loud belly laugh. “Thank you, Dean. I’ll treasure it all the remaining hours of my life,” but his eyes smile, not really believing the words he speaks. “I have a declaration for you, too, though it is considerably more prosaic: if we’re still alive tomorrow, I want you to promise me you’ll move out of the mess hall and live here with me. The bed is warm and soft and far too empty without you.”

Dean smiles, kisses his assent. “Someday I’ll tell you what I had to do to get this bed for you.”

“For us, you ass.”

Dean’s smile turns into a yawn. “You’re an ass.” And as he drifts off, draped over Cas, for the first time, maybe the last time, he murmurs, “Don’t ever change.”


End file.
